


Changing Sides

by Josafeena



Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-17 11:55:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29592435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Josafeena/pseuds/Josafeena
Summary: Follows on from that scene at the very end of ep1x10. The Weeping Monk and Squirrel ride off in the general direction of other Fey, bonding and whump ensue.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 29





	Changing Sides

**Author's Note:**

> This aimless meandering is set directly after season 1, and sprouted from pure frustration that season 2 has yet to be announced - #RenewCursed - but with any luck, season 2 will soon get confirmed and all this will be retrospectively tagged as AU.  
> I haven’t finished a single fanfic in years, but during lockdown, I watched Daniel Sharman in 3 different shows, as 3 very different characters, and something about his beautiful face and his very good acting has got the creative juices flowing again. I planned to write only a little h/c drabble but it grew into a few thousand words of unadulterated whump and angst. Enjoy!

“We should stop.”

The sharp young voice cut through the haze of pain. The Monk gave a small grunt of acknowledgement.

“You need to rest. I need to rest.” The boy went on. “If someone was still following they’d have caught up by now!”

“Need shelter.” The Monk murmured, squinting around them. 

“How about there?” He followed the boy’s outstretched arm to a dark smear of woods in the distance. He gave Goliath a small nudge to pick up speed and grimaced as the changing canter jarred his wounds again.

The rhythm of Goliath’s steady trot was usually a comfort for the one called the Weeping Monk. Now every step, every stumble of a hoof over uneven ground, caused a pointed throb in his side, his shoulder, his back, and especially his head. Closing his eyes, made the pain more prominent but equally, opening them to the dizzying landscape, the piercing daylight didn’t help either.

If it weren’t for the small body in front of him he would surely tumble from the saddle. As it was he kept one hand braced on the horn of the saddle in an effort to keep his weight off the boy.

\- - -

He kept going until they made it far enough into the woods that any rider in pursuit would struggle to see them through the density of the trees. The Monk gave Goliath’s reigns a gentle tug to bring them to a halt. He tried to swing gracefully off the horse but his legs refused to take his weight and he slumped to the side, his sight going dark around the edges. He heard Percival jump down the other side, and come around to him with a grumble. 

“Come on, up you get, you lazy so-and-so.”

The boy wriggled under his arm on his good side and tried to hoist him upward.

The Monk tugged on Goliath’s saddle and somehow found the strength to get his feet under him. He took a few moments to breathe and let the world settle before making any further moves. 

His first concern for them was sustenance. He fumbled with the saddlebag searching for his water-skin. He’d been impulsive in deciding to free the Fey child but not so foolish as to do so without ensuring his bag was packed with provisions.

Not for the first time, he cursed himself for not holding onto his sword. Or at least grabbing a bow on the way out of camp. There were two daggers he kept concealed in Goliath’s saddle but he felt unbalanced without his broadsword as a steadying weight at his hip.

He passed the water-skin to Percival, and then a loaf of bread wrapped in wax cloth. The boy gulped down some water, sighing with relief but looked hesitant at the parcel of bread. “I’m not hungry.”

“The rumbling of your stomach says otherwise.”

The boy handed the water-skin and the food back to him. “You need it too.” 

He opened his mouth to argue but seeing the obstinate expression he felt his energy flagging. “I will eat when we have set up camp.”

“If you don’t at least drink something you’re going to faint again.” 

The Monk pursed his lips, not liking to acquiesce but knowing the truth of it. He took a swig and then another, relishing how it quenched the thirst he’d been trying to ignore. If only it would work so well on his headache.

The boy was giving Goliath a hesitant stroke around the neck area. “We should find water for your horse.” 

Lancelot closed his eyes, and opened his senses to his surroundings, inviting all the scents, sounds and tastes of the woods in.

He turned his face westwards, to where the trees became a little taller. “There’s a stream through there.” He took a step back from Goliath, experimenting with standing unsupported, then clicked his tongue and patted the horse’s flank. Goliath snorted then slowly started to amble off in the general direction of water.  
Percival seemed nervous at the war horse’s sudden show of independence.

“Goliath will lead us.” The Monk assured him.

The boy started to follow cautiously after him, but then took his arm and placed it on his small shoulder; wordlessly offering some much need stability.   
“Clever Goliath.” The boy spoke in hushed wonder. 

At the water’s edge, the Monk did his best to sit gracefully on the bank but could manage little more than a control slump to the ground.

Percival rushed on ahead, alongside Goliath, to splash water on his face, scrubbing at the mud and flaking blood, before setting himself to the task of filling the water-skin. He returned to the Monk’s side and pressed the refilled skin to his lips.

He flinched when the boy pressed the corner of his shirt to his head, dabbing at the head wound. 

“Leave it.”

“It needs to be cleaned.”

“I’ll clean it myself.”

Now that he was seated, he wasn’t sure he would be able to lift his aching body off the ground again. But the clean glistening water in the stream called out to him.  
“Have you got any bandages?” The boy went to poke about the saddlebag, curious now, or perhaps hungry for the bread after all.  
The Monk mumbled his answer, letting his eyes drift shut for a moment, letting the sounds of water and the wind in the tree, the earthy scents all around him, lull him into calm oblivion.

\- - -

He was startled awake by a cool cloth pressed to his head. He grabbed at the small arm in front of him and was faced with a familiar if frightened, young boy. It took a moment for everything to fall back into place and he dropped the arm as though burned by it, apologizing in shame.

“Sorry I startled you.” The boy said, but seemed mildly proud of that fact.

“It’s alright. I…” He faltered as the pain in his head flared up when he tried to move. He had to close his eyes against the wave of nausea. He scrambled to the side and vomited whatever was left in his stomach. His vision cleared dramatically once it was done, everything returning to harsh cold reality.

“Yuck.” The young voice commented from behind his sleeve.

He wiped his mouth and shifted away from the mess on shaky limbs.

Percival pressed the water skin to his lips, and he gratefully washed the sour taste from his mouth. 

“There’s some bread, but I think you should wait before eating anything.”

“Yes.” He said, because nodded might be too taxing.

The water in the stream beckoned to him, so he crawled slowly towards the edge, where he could lean one elbow on a bank and dip the other hand into the bracingly cold water, and splash it up into the face.

The shock of it woke him up a bit more, and he took the time to wash blood and grime from his face and neck, running wet fingers over the tangle of his hair.  
He looked up to see Percival watching him carefully, perhaps worried he was going to topple face-first into the stream.

“Come here.”

The boy stepped hesitantly towards him. For all that they’d had to rely on each other since escaping the Paladin camp, the Monk was relieved to see the boy had retained a healthy distance. It saddened him too but he knew that he had far to go before trust would be given unflinchingly. 

The Monk took the piece of cloth from the boy’s hand and wet it more thoroughly in the cold water, then, keeping his movement deliberately slow he reached up to gently wash the boy’s face and examine the bruise around his eye. The swelling wasn’t too bad, but the boy bore the pain stoically. Brave as ever, he thought with a sad smile.

He felt the boy’s eyes on him, examining his face, his markings. “They don’t wash off.” The young voice remarked thoughtfully.

“No.” He cast a critical eye over the young frame, trying to assess if any limbs were being favoured, any injuries beings bravely concealed. “Are you hurt anywhere else?” He tried not to think of the many ways Brother Salt might have wounded the boy but flashes of his own early experiences with the man and his tools filled his mind, along with the damaged bodies of Fey he’d seen dragged from the Salt’s kitchen over the years.

Percival juts his chin out. “Nah, he just knocked me around a bit.”

He ran his fingers over the boy’s scalp looking for bumps.

“Gerroff!” He wriggles away from this examination.

“Does your head hurt?”

“Does yours?”

Immensely, he thought to himself, but simply frowned at the boy.

“I’ve had worse,” Percival announced, sticking his chin out. “This one time I was tied up and dragged behind a great big horse all day.”

“You were not dragged. And it was barely a quarter of an hour,” He muttered. It was impossible to feel truly indignant when reminded of their first meeting. Though he had not outright hurt the boy, he had been rough with him and frightened him into submission, and used him as bait to slaughter his friends and rescuers.

Some part of him was still proud of that ruse, and how effective it had proven. How merciful he’d been with his Fey bait, but the hypocrisy of his pride made him nauseous now. The words of the Green Knight beat a thumping rhythm in his head as they repeated over and over. 

‘…You burn their homes, you slay their mothers and their fathers, and you watch your red brother run them down on horses, and you see it all through those weeping eyes. That makes you guilty...’

“May I ask a favour?” 

The boy froze, eyes alert trying to figure out what might be asked of him.

The Monk lifted his good hand to the back of his head and tugged at his hair tie, loosening the wet curly tangles around his face.  
“Could you tie it back for me?” He handed the hair tie, a strip of worn leather, to Percival. “To cover the… the scars.”

The boy took the hair tie and moved behind him. 

“Don’t you want to wash it first?” He asked with a sneer in his voice.

The Monk leaned back towards the stream and did his best to rinse his hair one-handed, he then sat back and let the boy finger-comb the tendrils of hair over the cross that was carved into the crown of his skull. It would not hide it completely but he felt better having the immolation covered for the time being.  
He thanked the boy, who was assessing his handiwork with a critical eye, tucking stray curls behind an ear.

Eventually, he felt stable enough to struggle to his feet.

“Did you leave any bread?”

He followed the boy back towards the tree where he’d fallen asleep. His saddlebag was leaning against it. Percival retrieved the parcelled up bread and handed it over. Only a few bites have been taken. He carefully tore off a piece and chewed on it thoughtfully. He didn’t want to risk wasting their food if his nausea returned, but he knew he needed to eat something. 

“There were apples too.” He remembered suddenly and nodded towards the bag.

Percival reached inside and pulled one out. “I had mine already.” He admitted a little sheepishly

“Don’t apologise.”

He settled back against the tree, and the boy hunkered down opposite him, carrying the water skin, not drinking it, but fiddling with the cork thoughtfully.  
The Monk opened the saddlebag to assess their supplies and to wait for his small companion to decide what he wanted to ask. He found his small paring knife and used it to cut off a section of apple. He handed it to the Boy, then cut a slice for himself. Slipping it between his lips he savoured the burst of juice and acidity, and the soft crunch.

“Lancelot?”

He blinked at the boy, it unsettled him to hear his name spoken aloud.

“What did he mean?” 

“Who?”

He cut another slice and handed it over to Percival.

“That nasty one with the pointy face? What did he mean about species, and sniffing us out?”

The Monk drew a breath, wondering whether to try and avoid this, to lie and deflect or refuse to respond, as he did so often. But the boy had already reached his own conclusions.

“Are you…” He turned, piercing the Monk with his sharp blue eyes. “Are you Fey?”

He forced himself to say it aloud. “Yes.”

“That’s …”

He stiffened, bracing himself, he thought to put the knife and apple aside in case the outburst required him to grab the boy but was taken by surprise at his next line of inquiry.

“Can you make fey-fire?”

He blinked. “No.” He didn’t think so.

“Shame. That’s got to be the best power there is.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah. Would be really handy right now.”

He suddenly noticed the drop in temperature, and how dark it had become. He cut off another section of apple for the boy and one for himself.   
“It’s not safe to light a fire. They may still be looking for us.” He held open the folds of his cloak. “Sit close and…”

The boy didn’t wait for further invitation. He curls himself up against the Monk’s uninjured side.

They sat for a moment enjoying each other’s warmth while trying not to think about the strangeness of their position.

He offered him the last of the apple but the boy replied, “You have it." 

Tucking the small knife into his sleeve, the Monk pulled his hood up and drew the cloak around them both. He experimented with putting his arm over the boy’s shoulders before Percy took his arm and did it for him.

“We will leave at first light.”

A small huff sounded beside him. 

The Monk felt himself drifting asleep again but tried to keep his sense alert to sounds around them. He could hear nothing out of the ordinary, Goliath shuffling in the brush close by, chewing contently on whatever greenery he had found.

He knew they had to keep moving but he had no idea where to go, or what might be left of the boy’s people if Uther had driven them out of Gramaire, or if the Northmen at the coast had attacked their ships.

And even if he did find them, he could not march freely into a Fey encampment. 

But he also could not hand the boy over to any Fey without being sure he would be looked after. As they had journeyed further away from the Paladin camp; as the boy kept up his chatter and questioning, the Monk had realised it wouldn’t be enough for him to leave Percival with complete strangers who might take advantage of the boy.

Despite these worries, his body could not stay awake for long, and eventually, exhaustion took him. 

\- - -

Birdsong woke him along with dawn light crept through the trees. He had slept through the night it seemed, and so had the boy, who had curled further against him, lying in his lap now, under the cloak.

The Monk sighed and gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze.

“Boy… Percival.” 

He shifted his leg, the sensation of pins and needles flared up where his leg began to wake up.

The boy groaned and scrubbed a fist into his eye, then pulled the Monk’s cloak tighter around him like a blanket.

“We must move on.”

Despite how gentle Lancelot was trying to be, the boy jolted to full wakefulness now and gasped to find the Weeping Monk staring back at him before the events of the previous days slowly returned to him, and he seemed to sag under the relief.

They repeated the ablutions of the night before, refilling the water skin and taking small bites of the remaining bread. 

Lancelot even went so far as to remove his cloak and gambeson to splash water under his shirt, onto his chest, neck and armpits. 

Every movement ached. His side was a particularly sharp pain, and he worried that should he push a bad rib too far it might break. He knew from hard-won experience how debilitating such an injury could be, especially stuck as they were in the wilderness, hunted and vulnerable to attack.

His head felt no better for the rest but his vision stayed clear, and the nausea seemed to have diminished, which was a blessing in itself.

Percival dropped to his knees beside him and did his best to mimic his movements splashing about and nearly falling in.  
He then sat back with a sigh and looked at the Monk.

“Where exactly are we going?”

A good question and the man searched for a reasonable answer.

“I thought… Gramaire.”

“Yes, but…”

“I don’t know if they’ll still be there. Uther offered ships to get them abroad but… it might be a good place to start.”

“Start what?”

“To return you to your people.”

He couldn’t say family. The word was as hot on his tongue as the fire that burned the boy’s village, and he had been party to it, had been instrumental and may even have put his sword to one or other of the boy’s parents.

“No!” The boy slapped his hand against the ground with a sudden show of outrage. “We should find the Green Knight first. He was taken to the other camp; to Nimue. That’s where we should go!”

The last he’d seen of the Green Knight, he was being hauled into a wagon to be taken to Uther’s camp for ransom. He’d been a limp and bloodied figure, barely breathing, and not conscious. Lancelot found himself shying away from the thought of the Knight being killed, and daren’t say such words to the boy.

He tried to deflect. “Nimue?”

“She’s our queen.”

“The wolf-blood witch.” He murmured, odd to finally know the girl’s name. 

“Well, you can’t call her that now. She’s Nimue, or … Your Highness to you.” Percival pointed out. “Anyway, that’s where we should go, to find Gawain and Nimue.”

“We can’t just ride into Uther’s camp, not like this.” Swordless, he thought, not to mention injured and weak.

“Couldn’t we just get close? Have a look?”

“More spying?” He rounded on the boy. “Do you think you’ll survive a second capture?”

“I’ll have you to help me this time.”

Lancelot turned away to tie up his shirt and put his gambeson back on.

“Can’t we…” The boy rallied himself for another try. “Can’t we go that direction and just see what happened? If they’re … being held there, and then maybe we can... I’m sure it’s not far, I mean we could just go close and…”

The Monk sighed. He had to admit he was curious too. He wondered what had become of the Green Knight, and a small part of him wondered if there might be an opportunity to do something to help him if he yet lived. He thought about the direction they were headed, the distance from the King’s camp to Gramaire, or outwards to the coast where the ships might be boarding Fey folk his very minute, while he sat there in indecision. The King’s camp was the nearest of all three. 

He sighed again.

“On one condition.”

The boy grinned brightly. “What?”

“You do exactly as I say.”

“Right.”

“I mean it. If I tell you to run, you do it this time.”

“But you might need my help again.”

He got to his knees in front of the boy to meet him eye to eye.

“If I tell you, you will run.”

Percival turned his head away, biting his lip. Lancelot could smell the spicy anger emanating from the small body in front of him. He slowly rose to his feet and stepped away, retrieving his cloak from the tree where they had rested, giving it a sharp shake to loosen the leaves and dirt that clung to it.

“Is that what they taught you, those red bastards?” Percival growled at him. “Abandon your friends, your folk?”

He’d been expecting the hatred to return at some point, once the boy eventually remembered who he travelled with, but it still took him by surprise.

“They taught me to survive, and to fight.” He answered simply.

This seemed to quieten the boy, and silence fell between then continued to pack up their little camp and get ready to set off. But the sullen quiet struck him as a bad way to start the next leg of their journey. 

“I would have you run so that you survive and return to your people, where you belong.”

Percival glanced back at him. “If you’re one of us you belong with the Fey too.”

“I don’t.”

The little face scrunched up in annoyance. “Why not?”

He ducked his head. There were far too many reasons for the Fey to hate him, too many faces, too many lives, more than he can recall.   
“Your people will never accept me.”

Squirrel followed him, tugging at his cloak until he stopped.

“I’ll make them! I’ll talk to Nimue.”

He snorted.

“She’ll understand, I promise you.”

“Don’t.”

“But…!”

“Percival.” 

Blessedly, the boy relented. 

Lancelot went over to Goliath checking over the tack and saddle, scratching fondly on the horse’s nose. He turned to the boy, and said gently, “Don’t make promises you cannot keep.”

Percival silently handed him the refilled waterskin, and the remaining food to repack in the saddlebag. 

This time it was less of a struggle for Lancelot to lift himself up onto Goliath’s back, but pulling the boy up nearly dismounts him again.  
The boy twisted around to check on him. “You alright?”

He nodded and gave Goliath a gentle nudge and started them off towards the main road, trying desperately to ignore the throb in his side and his head at these movements.

\- - -

Lancelot began to regret the quiet that settled between them, as it left him too much time to feel his wounds and let his headache take over.

It seemed clear that Percival had been using the quiet to work on his argument. They’d been riding for an hour or so when he finally spoke up.

“You saved my life.”

Lancelot had been lost in his own thoughts and didn’t quite understand the boy’s meaning.

“So I owe you a life debt,” He went on. “And you have to let me try and repay it so-“

“You also saved my life when you cast that rock.” He cut him off. It had been a very brave and very foolish thing to do but Lancelot would likely be dead now if he hadn’t. “Consider us even.”

But the boy wasn’t finished and began again in a clear voice. “You burned down my village. You killed my friends.” He twisted around in the saddle to look at the Monk “You owe me.” 

Lancelot found it hard to meet the boy’s gaze.

“So in return, I want you to teach me to fight like you do.”

Taken aback, he stuttered. “I ... I cannot.”

“Why not??”

He blinks. “Your people will not allow it.”

“Yes, they will.”

“Percival…”

“My name is Squirrel!” The boy hissed, squirming about in the saddle to give the Monk a not-so-hard shove in his good side.

He was too tired to argue about names again, but he caught the sharp little elbow before it could strike again and gives it a warning squeeze. 

“Your people will not want me corrupting their young.”

“That doesn’t even make sense, you’re teaching me to fight, not… not…”

Perhaps the young imagination cannot fathom so big an idea as corruption, so insidious an act as the corruption of a child, but Lancelot knew first-hand how easily it was done, how a teacher could mould and influence a young mind in need of guidance.

“You saved me though so… I’ll tell them that and they’ll have to like you.”

The Monk ducked his head behind the boy’s head, hiding a small smile. He longed for things to be so simple.

“If your people do not shoot me on sight, then…”

“Then?”

“Perhaps, with their permission…”

“Yes!”

He sighed. He didn’t want to give him false hope but felt helpless in the face of such determination. He thought of himself at this age, torn from his home, given only terrible choices, survival as the only way forward. Perhaps a small ration of hope would serve them both on their long journey together.

\- - -

As the days wore on the road began to take them through a forest. Lancelot had deliberated over whether or not to stay on this route but he doubted his ability to navigate through the forest in his current state. Sticking to this path at least allowed Goliath to keep going in a straight line and put them in the right direction for reaching the King’s camp. What they might find there was the next problem.  
He also wondered how long to keep going before they stopped to rest again. He worried about pushing his horse through another taxing day of riding. So far his pace had been unhurried but if they came up against any trouble he would need Goliath to have the energy to sprint.  
His wonderings scattered in an instant as they crested a small hill and saw what lay further ahead.

A splash of bright red.

The boy craned his neck to see. “Does that look like…?”

Lancelot had a panicked moment to consider whether to make a run for it, but the Paladins up ahead were moving too quickly. There was no way to evade without causing them to give chase.

He secured his hood over his head and kept to the steady canter they’d been at all day.

“Keep your head down.” He whispered to the boy, who had stiffened in fright. “Pretend you’re hurt.”

It wasn’t long before the riders were upon them. He was relieved to find there were only two, but that was still enough to cause him trouble in his current state.

“Brother.” They greeted him. 

Both were fit and strong-looking, of the company Father Carden had taken with him to the King’s camp two days ago. Brother Robert was tanned and dark-haired, one of Carden’s recent recruits from his pilgrimage to the south-west. He had probably been a frustrated farmer or fisherman who’d pledged himself to the church for the opportunity to dish out bloody vengeance on command. The other Paladin was a bald and keen-eyed man by the name of Jonas, who frequently took to watching the Monk train but had never offered to go up against him. 

Lancelot nodded solemnly to them, as was customary behaviour for the Weeping Monk.

“Where are you headed, brother?” Jonas asked.

But Brother Robert spoke up before he could answer. “Isn’t that the Fey brat who …”

“He has information.” The Monk cut in, with all the authority of Carden’s right-hand man. “I’m taking him to Father.”

The two Paladins looked at one another, and there was a strange softness in Robert’s voice as he explained, “Brother, Father Carden is slain.”

All the air left his lungs and he swayed in his saddle.

“Are you alright?”

Percival gave him a discrete nudge with his elbow.

“I….”

“It’s the Abbott you should report to now,” Jonas stated, puffing up his chest at the chance to see the Monk wrong-footed. “That’s where we’re headed now.”

“No, I,… I need to…” He needed to get off the horse. He needed to sit down. He needed his head to stop spinning.

“Brother, you don’t look well.”

He blinking down at his hand curling around Goliath’s reins. He longed for the calming weight of his sword pommel, the sense of power it gave him. He’d been gifted that sword by Father, as a reward for hunting down a whole village of Fey hiding in the icy north, when scent had been impossible to pick up in the cold weather. He’d been so proud to receive such a fine weapon, a sign of all he had struggled for and achieved under the Carden’s watch. But mainly it was the approval, and acceptance he’d basked in, knowing that he was finally worthy of Father’s praise and high estimation.

All he had now was his hood to hide behind. 

The Paladins were asking questions, drawing closer. He tried to focus on what was happening. 

“Where is your sword, brother?” He heard one of them ask.

The boy was twitching in front of him, trying to catch his eyes. All pretence of submission seemed to have fallen away.

He cleared his throat and found his voice at last. “H-how was he slain?”

Jonas frowned at him. “Dismount and we will-“

“How did he die?” He demanded. “Who killed him?”

Brother Robert looked at him oddly, seeming a little green to recount it. “T-the Fey witch. She had a dark power, she…”

“Nimue! She did it!” Percival cried, perking up.

“Quiet!” He barked, hoping the message was clear, and thankfully the boy quelled in a reasonable imitation of terror. Lancelot slid out of the saddle, bracing himself and thanking the gods, Fey and Christian alike that his legs held his weight even as his head throbbed. He ran his fingers over the slot where his two daggers were concealed. He struggled to control the dizzy, quivering feeling. Father was dead. He was… gone. And yet, there was a sense of relief that he had died without knowing the disappointment of his ward’s failure. He should feel lighter, freer now that his keeper could no longer hold sway over. Instead, he felt the burden of what he must do next, all the heavier. 

“You should return to camp with us.” Brother Robert was saying. “The Abbott will want to know what you’re doing out here with the Fey child.”

He heard the warning in that tone. He imagined the Abbott would be all too happy to get him back within his grasp.

Jonas dismounted and he heard a sword being slowly drawn from its scabbard.

Lancelot looked up at Percival. All he had left to do now was protect this boy. It was the only good thing he could possibly do with his pitiful life, the only good act he was yet capable of. 

He pushed back his hood and wiped the sweat from his face. He knows the sight of his face gave the Paladin’s pause. Few bar Father Carden himself ever saw him without his hood up, and neither of these two had been Paladins long enough to remember the small marked boy or the callow youth he had been before the identity of the Weeping Monk was bestowed upon him.

He closed his eyes and took a breath to centre himself, then slipped the pair of daggers out of their hiding place. They wouldn’t be much of a match against a broadsword but he would have to make it work.

“What in god’s name are you doing?” Robert asked as Jonas advanced on the Monk.

Lancelot stepped away from Goliath creating some space to fight. 

“Go.” He told the boy without moving his eyes from Jonas who grinned and readied himself to take a swing.

The boys seemed frozen but quickly grabbed the reins and tried to steer Goliath away.

“He’s a turn-coat.” The bald Paladin spat.

Lancelot parried Jonas’s swing between crossed daggers and heaved him back, then again when the broad man cut towards his side. He met this hit and the next, but each one sent a throb through his side. He had height and speed over the other man but not heft, not injured as he is, and perhaps the Paladin knew this. 

“Traitor.” Jonas snarled but seemed delighted to be given this opportunity to fight him.

It was a small relief when Robert jumped down off his horse rather than give chase to Percival, but Lancelot realised grimly he’d be fighting the two of them now. 

He kicked out at Brother Robert who advanced clumsily, but it gave Jonas an opening and he used it to bash the flat of his sword against Lancelot’s wrist, making him drop one of the daggers.

Lancelot twirled and danced away, putting space between his two opponents, he braced his one dagger down to the hilt of Jonas’ sword when he came at him, trying to twist it out of the man’s grip, while also sending a box to his neck to make him choke. But the broader man let the heavy sword drop in order to punch the Monk directly in the ribs he’s been trying to protect.

Lancelot stumbled back, struggling to draw breath. He thought he felt a crack, it was an unholy fire in his side. 

He caught sight of another blur of red in the distance. Just what he needed. Reinforcements.

He had to think fast, as Robert had recovered and ploughed straight for him. The younger man raced forward with sword outstretched and Lancelot flipped his dagger into his other hand, sidestepped at the last second and thrust his blade into the younger Paladin’s stomach. Robert’s sword fell from nerveless fingers, and Lancelot pulled his dagger out shoved him to the ground. 

With an outraged roar, Jonas was on him, one meaty hand on his throat, the other grabbing the wrist of his dagger-hand. They both go down and Lancelot’s vision whites out from the impact to his ribs. Jonas was wheezing through his damaged throat, his whole face turned bright red. The Paladin bashed Lancelot’s wrist against the mucky ground to try and loosen his grip, Lancelot punched and kicked with all his might, forcing the Paladin to rear back. But with the Monk’s wrist still tight in his grip he pulled the arm up and knocked Lancelot onto his side, wrenching the arm back and back and back.

Snap!

Lancelot’s scream got trapped his throat, he felt the break throughout his body. His arm was released and dropped heavily at his side where it refuses to move. The pain was overwhelming. He couldn’t catch his breath, strangled by a compressed chest and ribs that felt like broken glass.  
Brother Jonas chuckled throatily and stumbled to his feet to retrieve his sword.

Lancelot’s arm hung uselessly off his shoulder, and the other was occupied with trying to find purchase in the ground and leverage himself up, but everything was spinning and he wasn’t sure if he was moving up or falling to the ground. He still had two good legs and used them kick out at the Paladin when he started advancing on him, aiming very pointedly for his crotch or his knee caps. He knew he needed to cause the maximum amount of pain to keep himself safe.   
He had to get off the ground or he was dead. He had to put distance between him and the Paladin, but it was hard to defend himself and keep moving when his body was slowing down and every move sent a spike of agony into his broken shoulder.

He gave one more kick this time connecting with the ugly red face, but it gave Jonas the chance to grab his ankle. For a moment Lancelot panicked that he might break that bone too, but instead, the Paladin used it to drag Lancelot across the ground towards him and kneel down, pinning the Monk’s long legs beneath him. 

Lancelot fought and struggled but could not dislodge the bigger man.

A noise from behind startled them both. Another Paladin joined them on horseback. 

“Brother!” Jonas crowed at the new arrival. “I’m about to deal with this traitor. See to Brother Robert.”

The other Paladin walked toward them, sword drawn.

Jonas grinned down at the Monk, his teeth bloodied, his eyes blazing.

Lancelot thought of Percival, hopefully miles from them by now, and in his honour, the Monk gathered blood and moisture into his mouth and spat in the Paladins’ face.

Jonas sneered in disgust and reared back, raising the sword above him.

They were interrupted again as another horse came galloping towards them.

“No!” Lancelot cried out, spotting Percival astride Goliath, brandishing a tree branch over his head.

Jonas would not be deterred again and went to thrust the blade down when his body jolted suddenly.

The Paladin blinked and ducked his head to see the tip of a sword piercing through his chest, it then twisted and withdrawn. 

Lancelot gasps and choked as blood sprayed over his face and chest before the weight of the now-dead Paladin was shoved off him.  
He stared up at this new Paladin standing over him, blood-covered sword in hand.

He blinked at the familiar face and at the red robes the man wore. It seemed Lancelot was not the only one to have switched sides.

“Gawain!!” Percival cheered, dropping his tree branch and clambering off Goliath to run up to the Fey Knight, throwing himself into red-clad arms.

“Squirrel!” The Knight whispered, holding him close.

“You made it just in time!” Percival proclaimed delightedly. “Why are dressed like that?” 

They both quickly looked over at Lancelot, loudly struggling to breathe.

“Lancelot!” Percival got to his knees trying to help him sit up.

The Monk groaned in pain as his ribs were aggravated by the change in position.

The Green Knight knelt at his side, assessing his injuries.

Lancelot shivered under his gaze, wondering if he would refuse to help the man who had led to his capture and torture if he would take the boy and leave the Monk to die on the road.

Instead, the man took over from Percival, lending his strength to keep the Monk upright. “Can you draw from the hidden?” He asked. “Like you did before?”  
Lancelot frowned. He’d never been asked about this power, and never let anyone who witnessed it live long enough to speak of it. “It doesn’t always work.” He answered huskily. Drawing breath to speak was a unique agony.

“Well, give it a try. This time it might.”

Lancelot placed his good hand on the ground and thought of that feeling of pulling, of drawing up from the earth. Another hand joined his and he gasped at the sensation of something living erupting beneath his palm and creeping up through his hand and inside the flesh of his arm, with more force it ever had before. He wanted to recoil from it. He’d only ever let this happen for a second, to give him a burst of energy, enough to finish a fight or to ignore a wound long enough to make a killing strike. Now he felt it spread through his chest to his damaged ribs, and he let out an involuntary sob as it filled his chest with warmth and something else he could not name.

He jerks his hand away. Cradling it against his chest. He still ached all over but at least he could breathe without that compressed, shattered sensation.  
He slumped against the broad chest behind him.

“Wow. I didn’t know you could do that.” The boy looked gobsmacked. 

“It’s no fey-fire,” Lancelot murmured tiredly. 

They sat there for a moment, catching their breath, the adrenalin of the fight was wearing off.

Lancelot gasped and groaned, as Gawain gently moved the dangling arm and folded it against his chest, using the straps of his cloak to hold the arm in place. The grinding sensation of what was probably a broken collar bone, made Lancelot’s vision tunnel and he struggled to stay conscious.   
Gawain was looking around them, at the two bodies, the swords, the blood spilt.

“There are more of them on the way, fleeing Uther’s camp. We need to get off this road.” He looked to Lancelot. “Can you stand?”

The Monk nodded and started the slow process of gathering his working limbs under him.

The Green Knight wrapped an arm around him and heaved him up. He waited for him to find his balance, before stepping away.

Lancelot clicked his tongue, “Goliath.” And the horse obediently trotted over, and let his rider lean against him.

With only one good arm, he needed a lot of help from Gawain to get up into the saddle, but they managed it. While he focused on staying somewhat upright and conscious he realised Gawain was dragging the bodies off the road, and Percival was using his branch to muddle up any trail left behind, then gathering up the swords and knives left behind.

Lancelot thought about asking for a sword or at least the return of his daggers, but when Gawain returned from hiding the bodies he thought better of it.   
With a sharp whip to their rears, Gawain sent the Paladin’s horses running deeper into the woods.

He turned to look at the former Weeping Monk, bloodied, unhooded, swaying in his saddle.

“Will you ride with him?” He asked Squirrel. 

“Someone has to make sure he doesn’t fall off.”

Gawain rolled his eyes but helped the boy up onto Goliath’s back, to his usual position in front of Lancelot, who draw his good arm around him.

“Follow me,” Gawain told them, then mounted his own horse, and led them off the road, in the opposite direction from where the horses had been sent.   
Lancelot steered Goliath after him, grimacing as the Knight picked up speed, and he was forced to follow. The bounce at this pace made him grit his teeth and hunch himself around Percival’s body. 

He doesn’t know how long they ride before Gawain circles back and leads them to a sheltered area where they might rest.

The Green Knight dismounted and came over to help. Embarrassing it was, Lancelot was glad of the support, as he knew he would not have made a dignified sight falling from his horse.

“If we wait here, perhaps the bulk of their force will pass us by.”

Gawain said as he helped to prop the Monk against a tree trunk. 

“And then?” Lancelot asks, stifling a groan as his shoulder made jarring contact behind him. 

Gawain answered cagily. “I’m not sure.” He began pulling off the red robes wrapping them up into a bundle and offering it as a cushion behind the Monk.  
Percival arrived over with the saddlebag and fishes out the water skin, wordlessly handing it to the Monk. 

Lancelot swallowed, he needed to get this conversation out of the way but didn’t want to upset Percival.

“Why don’t you see if there’s a stream nearby? Or something to eat?” He scented the air. “I think there might be hazelnut bushes nearby.”  
Percival perked up at the thought of food, looking around for them, but noticed the wary look passing between the two men.

“If you’re talking about important things, I want to be part of it.”

“Squirrel.” The Knight put a placating hand on the boy’s shoulder but it was shrugged off as he continued.

“And, I have to around to defend Lancelot, because he saved my life and I owe him a life-debt.”

“No, you don’t!” The Monk growled impatiently.

Gawain raised his hand to quiet them both. “Lancelot? That’s your name?”

Percival had the decency to look chagrined at having given away a possible secret, and Lancelot grimaced because he wasn’t yet used to being called that.

“It was. Before.” 

Gawain looked to the Monk with a touch of doubt. “And you saved him life?”

Percival took a large noisy breath, then began his account with gusto. “Yes, he rescued me from the ugly blind one, slit his throat right in front of me, then we were attacked by these other ones, all in black, wearing these stupid masks, but Lancelot fought them off. I helped, but he did most of it and scared the piss out of their leader. Then I helped him up and we got on his big horse, whose name is Goliath, and he’s actually a really clever horse, and we were riding for days and then we stopped and had a sleep, and we were coming to rescue you, but those two horrible wankers caught us, and he told me to ride and I did cos I was scared but only for a little and then I went back and well… you know the rest.”

“That’s not-“

“Yes it is, that’s how it happened. And now he’s told me his real name, and that he’s sorry… well he didn’t exactly say it, but I know he feels sorry because he wants to help us, and he’s going to train me to be a brilliant warrior like him and do flips and stuff… and he’s good now. He’s…”

“Percival. Enough.” Lancelot sighed.

“I need to speak with him alone,” Gawain announced.

The boy protested, “But you can’t…” Gawain gave him a quelling look, and though the boy was chastened, he persists. “You can’t hurt him.”

“I won’t.” Gawain agreed. “I give you my word. I just need to speak with him.”

“Alright. Well. I….” He got up scuffing his feet on the ground. “I’ll go look for those hazelnuts.”

“Thank you.”

“Percival.” The Monk sat up with a groan and nodded his head to the left of them. “That way.”

The boys grinned and marched off with a purpose.

Lancelot sat back, fingering the straps binding his numb arm to his chest. He regarded the Green Knight, waiting for him to lash out.  
He seemed to be gathering his thought, and Lancelot could smell the anguish and indecision coming off him in waves of briny acidity. 

At last, the Knight found the words he wanted to start with.

“What changed your mind?”

Lancelot chewed on his lip. You did, he thought to himself, but couldn’t bring himself to say it.

“I’m glad that you did but…”

“You should take him. Find your people. Uther offered ships to take the Fey abroad, they were leaving from Beggar’s Bay, you could…”

“And what will you do?” Gawain asked.

Lancelot looked away. He had no idea. He would be hunted by the Paladins and the Trinity Guard. His best bet was probably to head abroad too, maybe even back across the sea to his homeland, to try and find some corner of the world that was not ruled by the church yet.

Gawain slumped down and began to speak. “I awoke in the king’s camp mere hours ago. It was chaos, the Paladins fighting the King’s men, fires and bloodshed everywhere. I was …” He looked down at his hands, his chest. “I was somehow completely healed.” And he was. Lancelot could see no evidence that the man had ever been in Brother Salt’s kitchen.

“The hidden brought me back,” He went on. “And I could feel their direction, their power, directing me onwards. I think they led me to you.”

Lancelot frowned but didn’t voice his disbelief.

“I don’t know why but I knew … I sensed that...” The Knight seemed to struggle, and it struck Lancelot that maybe the hidden were as mysterious to him as they were to the Monk.

“I was given life and given a … path.” As he spoke Gawain seemed to grow more assured in his words. “And I think you, for better or worse, are part of it.”  
He looked up, with all the authority of his title.

“The Hidden command it.”

Lancelot couldn’t look away. He wanted to cower away from that forceful tone, that ringing destiny being laid out before him. But he felt weighed down by it. 

“You want me to fight for you.” He spoke wearily, feeling every beaten inch of his body. “Be your weapon, instead of the church’s.”  
He could imagine the years of bloodshed rolling on ahead of him and brought a bitter taste to his mouth.

“No.” Gawain insisted, kneeling closer now, putting a hand on Lancelot’s good shoulder. “I want to free you from them. Free us all. I want you to choose your people over these…men who…. Who claim a faith, a godliness, to justify their bloodlust and their cruelty. I want you to choose a path away from them. But I will not force it.”

Lancelot looks into the Fey Knight’s eyes, frightened by the conviction he sees there, for all his talk of godly men. He can see the truth of his sentiment. He can smell it, and part of him wants to commit himself to this cause, to plunge deep into whatever quest these Hidden have set for the Knight, but he knows such a righteous path will be denied to him.

The words rumble out of his dry throat. “There is nothing I could do, no task or quest or battle fought, that would ever atone for all the Fey lives I have taken.”  
That puts a damper on the Green Knight fervour. He sits back and regards the former Monk. 

“Perhaps not,” He agrees. “But does that mean you won’t even try to atone?”

He knows he’s supposed to deny it, to acquiesce, and pledge himself to it, but it all seems like so much. He nearly died less than an hour ago. He was ready for his life to be ended so that one Fey boy might live, and not for the first time. He wonders if he has the strength to keep going, to keep fighting the inevitable. He’d always thought he was destined for a bloody death in battle since the day he was first handed a paladin sword. That or the fiery pits of hell. The only thing that kept him going was the slim possibility that his holy work would grant him some small mercy in the afterlife. Now he had no such assurance, no such confidence that his effort meant anything when the veil of purpose could be so easily ripped away from him.

Gawain seemed not to expect an answer from him. He sat back and looked around for the boy.

“We’ll rest here for the night, then head for Gramaire in the morning.” He told him. “I can’t guarantee a warm welcome but I’ll make sure your wounds are seen to, and you’re given time to heal. Then we will continue this conversation, and I will get an answer out of you.” 

He walked back to the horses, seeing to saddles and blankets, not giving Lancelot a chance to respond.

Later, once Percival returned with a pile of hazelnuts tied up in a handkerchief, they ate the remains of the bread and shared the last apple between them.   
Gawain gathered a bundle of twigs and dried leaves together on the ground then knelt and held his hands out, fierce concentration in his face.  
Percival, sitting close to Lancelot, gave him an enthusiastic elbow in the side. 

Gawain strained and groaned for a while but then sat back with a huff.

“No.” He pouted. “Looks like the Hidden didn’t grant me that gift.”

Lancelot elbowed Percival back. “There’s a tinderbox in the bag.” He then watched as the boy fetched the little box and together he and the Green Knight were able to coax a small flame into being, cheering with triumph, as though this was a special kind of magic they had managed after all.

He watched then drowsily, warmly lit by the fire, and felt a strange protectiveness for the both. And contentment. If the Hidden truly had some plan in mind for him, that drew Gawain to him and the boy, that they should take this next journey together, then perhaps… perhaps…

He let himself drift off to sleep.


End file.
